


The Entangled

by Bool_Ji



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Love Confessions, M/M, Monster Boyfriends, Peril, Short fic collection, Shotgun Wedding, Wacky Magic Hijinks, request fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-14 10:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20599160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bool_Ji/pseuds/Bool_Ji
Summary: Quantum entanglement is a phenomenon that occurs when objects interact or share proximity in ways such that the quantum state of each object cannot be described independently of the state of the others, even when separated by a large distance.By request, my Doom/Strange flash fiction, originally posted on my blog, now brought to you here.





	1. The Kind Of Sort Of Fake Dating One

**Author's Note:**

> "okay but imagine doom being invited to some fancy ball by someone Stephen is suspecting of consorting with demons or whatever and Stephen, seeing no other easy way to get into the premises, asks to be Doom's date" -tumblr user doktorvondoom

“What?”

“Let me be your date.” There. It’s on the table, in all its naked, simple glory. Stephen Strange would feel absurd if he hadn’t already done sixteen other absurd things before breakfast. Hands folded, he watches the microsaccades that betray the gears in the king’s head turning.

“No.”

He saw that coming from miles away. “Victor, it’s a social event. You don’t go to one of those alone. Do you want to be a sad frog? Especially since I don’t know if those are associated with the far right anymore. It seems to change every other day. Regardless, you’re already wearing green.”

Wham! It lasts for a microsecond, but Stephen catches it. A wrench thrown into the machine, throwing off Doom’s rhythm for a fraction of a hair before it is ground into paste. His eyes narrow in distrust and the _tiniest_ ounce of confusion. “Have you taken entire leave of your senses?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Let me see the invitation.”

“No. Begone.”

Strange would mourn Victor’s predictability if it wasn’t so convenient. The Eye of Agamotto flashes, and a curled piece of gilded tree bark appears in his hand. The alien text written on it is translated by the golden glow. “Ah, there it is. You may bring one other person. I would like that person to be me. Would it help if I made myself a woman? If you find the unconventionality of our relationship uncomfortable, I have illusions in spades.”

Doom laughs, and it is Stephen’s turn to regroup, find his flub. “You are a neurosurgeon turned Defender, a snobbish socialite turned Sorcerer Supreme,” the king says, “I am a Zefiro wretch turned monarch, an oppressed genius turned liberator, and you find _gender_ the most _unconventional_ aspect of our mismatched, nigh incomprehensible _catastrophe_ of a partnership? Doctor Stephen Strange, you are a fool of the highest order.”

“I would love to be a fly on the wall for a commencement speech you give at the U of L,” the magician says, hating how small his voice sounds, “You’re quite good at that.”

Victor grins. It is the sweetest venom on earth.

\- - -

Strange busts out his best suit for the occasion, but Doom still shows him up. Dismissed are the tunic and cloak. Instead his armor is coated in a look for the twenty-first century absolute ruler, inlaid with gold and a dragon’s hoard of gemstones. He looks razor sharp, deadly, a death too fast to perceive before the soul is dragged away.

_And it’s not green_, Stephen thinks, trying not to smirk. Back to the task at hand.

“Be mindful,” he says, leaning in to talk directly into a hidden ear, “The people here know all too well who you are. That’s why they invited you, Victor. They want you for their zoo. You’d be their star attraction. Feedings at twelve and four, demonic torture and torment every fifteen minutes.”

Doom lowers his glass. The scents of cloves and brandy on his breath makes the sorcerer shiver. “Strange.”

“Yes?”

He plants the glass in scarred hands. “If you will not be helpful, then retrieve me more wine.”

\- - -

“Our deepest gratitude for inviting us. This has been an unforgettable evening. As Sorcerer Supreme and as a man, I have the greatest respect for forging diplomatic liaisons through peaceful measures, and–”

That’s when everything falls apart.

Doom bows. A thousand red flags go off in Stephen’s mind. Doom never bows, and by the time he’s picked up the ulterior motive, it’s too late. Titanium fingers tweak a ruby button, and Strange recalls something Doom told him at some point in time, something about data stored in the molecular planes of crystals, and there is a shotgun bang of space being rendered open, and a blur of orange and black, and screams, and a five hundred pound male Siberian tiger looks back at the doctors and growls, canines soaked in blood.

“I have a zoo as well,” Victor says.

Stephen has no words.

The king snaps his fingers. The tiger pads to his side and rubs up against his touch. “I have had enough entertainment for tonight.” He steps through the portal where an airship is already waiting for him, and only when the hole closes and Strange is alone does the magician find his voice.

“Hoary _fucking_ hosts.”


	2. The "Surprise We're Space Married" One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this was two words: Vegas wedding.

There’s a special kind of jet lag that goes with rapid universe jumping. Reserves drained, thoughts bleary, it took all of Doom’s will to trod across the hotel room, pieces of armor dropping like shed scales, and collapse in bed. At some point Strange must have joined him, for the king’s head was now nestled on pillows, but he was alone. The light streaming through the windows comes from millions of bioluminescent gnats clinging to the sides of the coral casinos, the only indication of daytime on a world parented by a white dwarf star.

Stephen emerges from the bathroom, tugging his shirt on. “Ah. You’re awake.”

“Astute as ever, Strange.”

The magician toes into his shoes and pretends not to hear him. “Here is where we stand. We saved Neo Vegas last night. The localized pocket dimension general managers were given a stern talking to about building hyper-computers to manipulate the constants of physics. You used the term _inert quantum slag_. It got the point across. And even if your words didn’t, you twisted a giant cicada’s head off like a bottle cap. That’s going to be hard to forget.”

That explains the black stains on his cloak. Those will be impossible to get out of the fabric, let alone the carbon fiber nervous system woven into the threads. He’ll have to craft a new one. What a nuisance.

Stephen presses on. “We returned the misbegotten funds to their rightful owners with a body count of only a dozen between us, though as monsters with space-time as their genetic code, I don’t know how dead they truly are. I bribed the authorities to let us go. The price was…not insurmountable, but…”

Doom lifts his hand. The gold band on his finger vibrates in and out of existence as its molecules travel to and from parallel dimensions, one millisecond as faint as ghosts, the next solid as life itself.

“I’m sorry.”

There’s only one reason Stephen gets up before him. He thinks something is horribly wrong. And it is horrible, waking up wed with no memory of consent, so consuming was his fatigue, to bumbling, ill-mannered Strange, fully dressed and ready for combat, expecting Doom, even unarmored and exhausted, to slaughter him for this perceived insult.

How horrible, to dance on daggers all the time. How horribly familiar.

Doom sits up against the headboard. “Strange.”

“What?”

“You forget that I wrote the constitution of my kingdom. These bands are as legally binding on Earth as breathing the same air. Their only weight is the meaning we give them.”

The magician tenses, watching Victor turn the ring around his finger. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Doom closes his eyes for a moment, and on opening they are alight with something new and fierce. “Not insurmountable.”


	3. The Hideous Monstrocities (Depending on Who You Ask) One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cryptid AU. I love writing monsters.

“Ah, how the mighty have fallen.”

The smile in Doom’s voice makes Stephen’s stomach churn. Backlit by a streetlamp, the king is a blade of dark in the night. Strange scowls, taking heed to flash his fangs. “All I’m looking for is a rat or two.”

“The only vermin in Doomstadt are the wretched fools styling themselves heroes who dare to oppose me.” 

“Then what would you have me do, Victor?” The magician folds his arms. “I know what your subjects are saying. The thing that shuffles at night, the thing that wears the skin of a man, the thing with one, gleaming Eye. You being you, you’d know the moment my teeth met flesh. I’ve kept the hunger at bay as long as I can, but it’s too much to bear. So go ahead. This is me admitting to you I’m at my wit’s end.” He draws a deep breath. “I trust you. Help me.”

Nothing moves save Doom’s cloak in the wind. Finally, with a quiet laugh, he says, “Was that truly so hard? Come with me.” He turns and starts the silent walk back to the castle. With no other choice, Strange follows.

\- - -

The banquet hall is illuminated solely by the ghostly light of the full moon. Gone are the table and chairs, the carpets, even the watchful gaze of royal sentries. When Doom arrives, clad only in a robe, Stephen learns why.

“Does it not kill you, Strange?”

Something is off here. Something terrible is going to happen, and the scent of thick, hot blood just underneath that scarred skin blots out any thought beyond _take_. _Feed_.

The robe hits the floor. “Reap the fruits of your trust.” 

There’s nothing human enough in Stephen to stop himself. Air bursting as he teleports across the hall, he grabs strangleholds on Doom’s shoulders and bites down on his neck.

Nothing. He tries again, mindless to all but the hunger, pressing his mouth against hardened, plated flesh until his fangs ache. Panting for breath, he looks at Doom’s face.

The king’s pupils are slits, looking back at him with glee. Grabbing hold of Strange’s tunic, he throws him away.

Stephen recovers quickly, but the transformation is far too fast. Magic is too much effort for him now, and he runs toward the hunched, shifting creature. A sudden unfurling nearly drops Strange to the floor – enormous splashes of green and silver in the shadow–

Eyespots. Victor has eyespots on his wings.

Perhaps the hunger knows when it’s beaten, for the magician can only watch as the beast rises on all four legs. A hiss steams past rows of sharp teeth, long tail whipping. A clear warning.

There is only room in the kingdom for one monster.

“Fuck,” Stephen mutters. There are so many questions. They will need to be answered later. “Fine. Very well. Are we eating or not?”

Doom huffs, smoke on his breath. He clicks a claw on the marble floor twice.

Two robots bring in a cow, freshly slaughtered. They place it on the ground, bow to their ruler, and depart.

“I usually don’t eat bee–” Strange starts. Turning the carcass over, Doom tears it open with the delicacy of a surgeon. It’s too much. Finally, something that will slake the hunger. Teleporting to the other side of the cow, he kneels, runs his hand through its pooling blood.

“Dibs on the liver.”


	4. The Borrowed Cloak One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Stephen is badly hurt, Victor wraps him up in his cloak and carries him to safety." -- tumblr user imperiuswrecked

Doom hates cannibalizing himself. It runs counterintuitive to his modus operandi – ultimate preparedness self-crippled. May as well take the exposed thermonuclear heart of his armor and toss it out the window while he’s at it, just for that extra spice of challenge. The armor is heavy enough already, cables, plates, and wires taken to construct a Stone Age transdimensional gateway home. He has to work with precision, and he has to work fast.

He doesn’t like the pallor of Stephen’s skin.

“Is there special laundry detergent for royalty, or is it just a generic brand?”

Doom is used to being treated like a predator. Top of the food chain. Carnivore, killer for sport. In his heart of hearts, it is unsettling for something to look at him and think _prey_. 

Looking at Strange, even worse. 

But he is resourceful, whip-smart, and has another life’s worth of memories to draw upon. He knows how to hide from things who would tear them apart and leave the viscera for the worms, regardless if their weapons are teeth and claws or Soviet era rifles. His cloak is the color of nobility in Latverian culture. It’s the color of moss, of grass, of leaves.

It’s the color of life, and hidden beneath it, Stephen could be just another pile of foliage. Camouflaged.

“Speaking will not keep your blood where it is supposed to be. Silence.”

“Careful, Victor, that sounded like it could’ve been a joke.” 

Doom ignores the knee-jerk urge to kill him, because there is something out there already trying to do that. Lenses slide into place over his eyes as he peers up into the sky, charting the stars at midday. He sucks a quick breath as the jury-rigged machine sends a jagged glass jolt of pain through his bare hand. He spares a quiet curse before trying again. It’s almost, _almost _there.

“You’re a miracle.”

The king looks at the magician, aware the red lenses and open panels make him resemble a monstrous beetle mid-metamorphosis. “There is no such thing. There is only what one’s hands have wrought. Be quiet, Strange.”

“And what you have wrought indeed.” Stephen’s voice is low, wondrous. “Look at you. You’re a genius, a monarch, a sorcerer in your own right. Nothing can stop you. Certainly nothing on Earth. There are _gods_ who fear you, Victor, did you know that? There are gods who want to _be_ you. I’d be lying if I said _I_ didn’t want to be you sometimes. I could use the servants, at least. Might I borrow one for a while? Wong’s birthday is coming up, I want to give him a vacation.”

Later, Doom will look back at this moment and think the stress got to him, made him crack just a tiny bit. “You need only ask. I shall even lend you a robot with hydrostats.”

“Hydrosta–oh. Oh, that _was_ a joke.” Stephen smiles. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Doom doesn’t reply. He has to concentrate _right now_, because if he doesn’t, that wrench Strange has thrown out of left field will grind everything to a halt. It feels like a wound, a cruel cut that demands attention. There isn’t time. Not when the magician has finally shut up, which is good, and stopped moving, which is bad. He queues up the command for all medical personnel for emergency response when they arrive at the castle. When they arrive home.

The machine groans and crackles to full speed, and Victor slams the activation button. 

Here goes nothing.


End file.
